Empty Bottle

It's dangerous to finish a bottle of whiskey in two days
and a love affair in twelve hours.

The stage sets, with one player, one prop, one instrument;
the empty bottle and the empty bed bring forth memory.

The guitar, weeping and shouting,
celebrates both types of intoxication.

All at once, the chemicals brought forth naturally (and unnaturally),
combine to create a frenzied, nostalgic glow.

Moderation, that trusty, knowing, sensible recluse,
is bullied, punched, and overtaken by passion and gluttony.

Drunken stupor, over lost lust or fermented grape,
seeps deep into blood, honoring loss.

Frantic memory-loss mingles with love's sweat;
the art of forgetting consequence reaches its climax.

Passed time overshadows hangover and (sometimes) regret;
the unmade bed and creaky guitar and empty bottle all clutter.